M.D. Poole's Blog

https://www.amazon.com/author/m.d.poole

I bet you won’t act like Steve Holmes when you win the Lotto.

Steve still shows up for work after he becomes a millionaire, and he doesn’t have a mob of women chasing him. Then the money doesn’t buy the one thing he wants, and he goes a little crazy.

Find WORLDLY GOODS at https://www.amazon.com/author/m.d.poole

WORLDLY GOODS is also available in France at https://www.amazon.fr/s?k=M.D.+Pooleamazon.fr

and in England at https://www.amazon.co.uk/Worldly-Goods-novel-M-D-Poole/dp/B0C87DV44B/

After you read about Steve Holmes, add your review for WORLDLY GOODS on Amazon.

https://www.amazon.com/author/m.d.poole

I bet you won’t act like Steve Holmes when you win the Lotto.

Steve still shows up for work after he becomes a millionaire, and he doesn’t have a mob of women chasing him. Then the money doesn’t buy the one thing he wants, and he goes a little crazy.

Find WORLDLY GOODS at https://www.amazon.com/author/m.d.poole

WORLDLY GOODS is also available in France at https://www.amazon.fr/s?k=M.D.+Pooleamazon.fr

and in England at https://www.amazon.co.uk/Worldly-Goods-novel-M-D-Poole/dp/B0C87DV44B/

After you read about Steve Holmes, add your review for WORLDLY GOODS on Amazon.

My new book is out, and I love it. Do me a favor, please — if you read it, take a photo of yourself with it and post it on FB or Instagram or YouTube or TikTok or Twitter — whichever makes you happy, will make me happy. It’s available as a book or as kindle. amazon.com/author/m.d.poole or amazon.fr/s?k=M.D.+Poole or other countries too, always in English.

The re-release of my novel JUST ACROSS THE STREET IN NEW YORK CITY is here! You can find the book or Kindle version at amazon.com/author/m.d.poole and also in France at amazon.fr (other countries too…though all in English.) I must again thank Sanaan Mazhar for the great cover. Please share with all your friends, and let me know what you think. Love to all on this great day!

Does Carolyn inherit a bag of debts from her mother? Does Mike quit therapy now that he has everything he wants? Does Marsha decide to get pregnant? JUST ACROSS THE STREET IN NEW YORK CITY has answers, and then, more questions. Keep reading!

§§

“You must like that table,” Pat Knolles said.

Mike glanced up without focusing on anything in particular in the therapist’s office.

“The table,” Pat repeated. “You’re drumming your fingers on it.”

“It bothers you?” Mike asked, with a sly grin.

Pat answered with another question, “Are you angry, Mike? Nervous?”

Mike looked to his left, trying to avoid the sightline of the man slouched in the swivel naugahyde chair. It looked more comfortable than the over-sized club chair he sat in. He shifted the pillow behind his back, and crossed his left calf on top of his right knee.

“I got a manicure yesterday,” Mike said.

Pat nodded.

Mike took a breath and finally looked Pat in the eyes. “I’ve been coming here over a year. Every week.”

“Except vacations,” Pat quipped. “We both take a lot of vacations.”

“I’m not laughing, Pat. I don’t remember why I came in the first place. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home and never come back.” He felt like a dam burst, and he couldn’t stop repeating himself. “It’s not you, Pat. I like you. But I don’t want to be here. It’s not doing me any good.”

Pat noticed that Mike wasn’t tapping his nails anymore. He said, “Do you want me to remind you why you first came to visit me?”

“Don’t start up with the psychological questions. Talk straight to me. I want out. I’m tired of analyzing myself.”

Pat reached for the pack of cigarettes on his desk, took one out, and lit up. “I want to stop smoking. You’d think a psychologist could get himself to quit something he knew was bad, wouldn’t you?”

“That’s one of your left-handed questions again,” Mike said.

Pat laughed. “Sorry. Occupational hazard, Mike. Okay. I hear you. That’s the right jargon, isn’t it? I hear you. You want out. Nobody is forcing you to come here, you know that. You didn’t sign a contract.”

Pat inhaled another lung-full of smoke. “If it weren’t for cancer, it’d be a great habit.” Then he turned his attention back to Mike. “I like your $125 every week. I even like you. You’re the sort of person I’d want to play golf with. If you weren’t a client.”

“I don’t play golf.”

“It was a metaphor,” Pat smiled. “First, you came to me for the personality tests your wife’s lawyer wanted. Then you kept coming, I think because you wanted to stop having dreams about Nicky. When was the last dream you had?” Pat asked.

Mike hung his hands in the triangle between his crossed legs, and answered, “Probably a month ago. Or maybe a couple of weeks.”

“So, your life has changed. The bad dreams are less frequent. Yeah, maybe it’s time to quit therapy. That’s fine.”

Mike looked at Pat from the side of his eyes, and said, “You don’t think it’s fine.”

“I think it’s fine. Later, when the divorce is finalized, if you want, you’re welcome to come back. Or you might want to talk about empowering yourself in work, whether it’s accounting or acting. Then there’s the thing about sex. Maybe there are better sleeping potions and ego enhancers than sex. And your daughters — if you get anxious about being a single dad, let me know.”

Mike looked at his watch. He had less than 15 minutes left of the session, and he still hadn’t told Pat his good news. But instead, he said, “I don’t want the nightmares to start up again every night.”

“As long as you like yourself and your life, it’s the perfect time to quit therapy.”

Mike tapped his fingernails on the glass tabletop again.

Pat continued, “There’s no predicting the future, Mike, but I think the dreams are under control.” He snuffed out his cigarette. It was a wonder to him, how he was able to finish a smoke at exactly the right moment to say his exit line. “Our time’s up, Mike.”

Mike didn’t make a move to leave. Instead, he finally burst out with, “I got the role, Pat. The big one, the lead in On the Couch, the one at Off-Center Theatre.”

Pat stood up. It wasn’t the first time Mike left important news until the last minute of his session. It was a sign that Mike saw Pat as a parent-figure who had the power to diminish the importance of the accomplishment. The man wanted so badly to be an actor. Pat was thrilled for Mike, and he said so.

Some color came back into Mike’s face. “Yeah, it’s great, isn’t it?”

Pat put his hand on Mike’s shoulder, and repeated, “Absolutely great! Have you started rehearsals?”

“We had the first read-through. Rehearsals start next week.” He looked Pat in the eyes and added, “Yeah, life’s not so bad right now.”

“Mike, go home. The hour’s up. There’s no problem if you want to quit coming for sessions. Think about it for a week. Consider easing out, maybe one session every two weeks, or once a month until the end of winter. Or just quit. You won’t go crazy, I promise you.”

 When Mike left, Pat shook his head. He recognized the antsy restlessness of a satisfied client. Pat Knolles knew Mike Levine would never lack for professional help in the New York City area, where 500,000 therapists worked. One out of two adults in New York City used a therapist, counselor, psychiatrist, psychologist, therapy group, guidance facilitator, holistic healer, or some other form of mental health support. That statistic included the homeless. One out of four NYC children saw a shrink.

Analysis was more than a business; it was part of city life. At parties, people talked about two things, apartments and therapists. They were the common denominators that strangers could count on. Maybe a man hadn’t seen the newest movie, maybe a woman didn’t want to talk about work. Perhaps the spouse, health, politics, and religion weren’t safe topics. But “What do you pay for your apartment?” and “How often do you see your therapist?” were always good icebreakers.

§§

Mike arrived home at West 22nd Street, climbed the stairs, and sank into his over-sized chair. His apartment didn’t have homey touches, like hanging ferns or colorful potholders. He’d chosen chrome, glass, and leather because they were easy to care for. He had a maid come in on Tuesdays. She took the dirty clothes to the Eighth Avenue laundromat, came back 1½ hour later to iron shirts, change the bed linens, vacuum the fluffy white rug, and scour.

Mike’s white sofa-bed faced the windows overlooking West 22nd Street. Behind it was the dining table, and further back on the left was the kitchen. On the back right wall was the door to the bedroom, where there were two walk-in closets, one for his daughters’ things, and one for his, everything from clothes and shoes to an orange bowling ball.

Mike loosened his tie and headed for the kitchen to make a drink, and then he went to the bedroom to take off his gray worsted suit. He pulled on navy slacks and a snow white, long sleeve polo shirt, adding Bass Weejuns and a leather belt. It was time to pick up Dori Kahn for supper.

Mike preferred Hattie Shaw because she could follow a conversation. And there was an attraction about a woman who supported herself as a singer. Dori, on the other hand, auditioned at cattle calls advertised in Back Stage, and if she got selected, it was for bit parts, usually without pay. The rest of the time, Dori was a word-processing temp, so she was always grateful for a free dinner.

When they arrived at The Dock on Broadway at 89th Street, Dori swooned, “Oh Mike, a restaurant with tablecloths!”

Dori liked sex doggy-style. While Mike ate sautéed softshell crab with snow peas, wild rice, and hush puppies, his mind wandered to the summer after tenth grade. He’d visited a friend with a summer job at a marina. She took Mike for a walk in the woods, where they saw two stray dogs coupling, staggering along on six legs, yowling and yelping.

The dogs reminded him of the time years before when he and his best friend Nicky had thrown stones at two mating dogs, trying to break them apart.

That’s what they’d been doing when the shot rang out and a red splotch had started growing on Nicky’s neck, running down his pale blue shirt collar. Nicky’s knees folded, and he fell down with his mouth and eyes gaping open in surprise.

Mike stared at Nicky twitching on the ground. The hunters came running toward the boys. Then a grey jeep arrived to take Nicky to the hospital, where he was operated on. Nicky recovered, and now he was an assistant DA in Hartford.

After the main course, Dori and Mike skipped dessert and took a cab back to West 22nd Street.

§§

Toulousa paid the driver while Marsha ran around to the other side of the taxi to help Carolyn get out. The big woman moved slowly, getting her feet out and placing them solidly underneath her. Toulousa and Marsha flanked her, lifting under her arms, until Carolyn was steady on the sidewalk with the little blue bundle held to her chest.

The January wind whipped around them, and the feeble sunshine didn’t warm them up at all. Carolyn looked up at the 2nd floor windows. It was her apartment now that her mother was gone. Her legs wobbled, and Toulousa and Marsha tightened their grip on her.

Marsha unlocked the building’s door, asking, “Do you want to rest in my apartment before climbing up?”

Carolyn shook her head, answering, “No. We’re ready.”

When they got to the landing, they realized Carolyn didn’t have a purse, didn’t have a key, and no one was inside to answer the door.

“There’s a spare key on top of the third-floor door frame,” Carolyn said.

Toulousa took the stairs two at a time going up to the next landing. Coming back with the key, she said, “It’s a good thing I’m tall.”

“That door goes directly into Mother’s bedroom,” Carolyn said. Then she seemed to hear what she’d said, and her face fell.

“It’s alright,” Marsha said softly, putting her arm around Carolyn’s shoulder to usher her through the open door. “Let’s think about your beautiful new baby. It’s the first time he’s seen his home.”

“It doesn’t feel like home without Mother,” Carolyn said.

Marsha couldn’t keep herself silent, “Maybe it’s better that she’s not here.” She had tossed out the poisoned cookies two days ago, but she hadn’t changed her mind about the world being better off without Lydia Duffy, her abuse, and her mean selfishness.

“Marsha!” Toulousa chided, not believing Marsha could say such a thing.

Carolyn’s blue eyes filled up, her chin quivered, and tears ran down her cheeks. “It’s so empty here,” she blubbered. Her shoulders shook, but her arms stayed curled around Bert’s blanket. When the baby joined in with his own wails, Carolyn shushed herself and turned her attention to him.

Taking a breath, Toulousa launched in, “You’re not going back to work for a while, Carolyn.”

“Three weeks,” Carolyn answered. “The doctor told me. The stitches come out in another week, and two weeks after that, I’ll be ready.”

Marsha said, “But you can’t lift anything more than 10 pounds for six weeks.”

“Bert won’t gain that much weight,” Toulousa laughed.

“I have to get back to work soon. I have to feed Bert, so I have to work.”

“Let’s get you settled, and then we’ll plan your future,” Marsha said. “Your bedroom’s upstairs?”

Carolyn looked up the stairs. “Pete’s not going to be with me,” she murmured and started crying again.

Toulousa rolled her eyes and got up, going to the kitchen to get Carolyn a glass of water. When she handed the water to Carolyn, she was firm, “We’ve been through this, Carolyn. Like his mother said, he’s young, too young to take on a responsibility like Bert.”

“But…, but he told me…,” Carolyn hiccupped.

It was Marsha’s turn to shush Toulousa with a glare. “He loved you, Carolyn. He still loves you, I’m sure. But he’s too scared to be a daddy.”

Ignoring Marsha’s frown Toulousa added, “You’re the same age as his mother, Carolyn. If you were his mom, you’d make him quit his job so he’d settle down to finish high school.”

Carolyn kept crying, and it was getting on Toulousa’s nerves. Putting her hands over her ears, she said, “It sounds like we’ve got a hundred babies in here. I’m going out to get groceries.”

Marsha jumped up from the couch. “That’s a great idea, Toulousa. You go, and we’ll get moving here. How about I look around for official documents your mother might have left? Bank accounts or records for the apartment building?”

Carolyn’s sniffles didn’t stop, but she nodded, so Toulousa left, and Marsha started poking around the desk at the far end of the living room, turning up her nose at the musty smells.

By the time Toulousa returned, Marsha had a pile of papers in front of her, and Carolyn was breast feeding Bert.

“What’d you find?” Toulousa asked.

“Sit down,” Marsha commanded.

Toulousa did as she was told, but said, “Don’t get used to me obeying your orders.”

“She found Mother’s will,” Carolyn said.

“Or at least a will. We’re not sure if it’s the most recent one.”

Toulousa shrugged. “You’re her only daughter, right? She owned this building, so it comes to you. There’s no surprise in that.”

Marsha nodded. “You’re right. Carolyn inherits everything. It’s the ‘everything’ that’s the surprise.”

Toulousa waited.

Carolyn said, “It sounds like Mother had more money than I thought.”

Marsha came over to Toulousa and handed her a file folder. “She must have had more than this apartment building. Look at the taxes she paid last year.”

Toulousa clacked her tongue, pushing the folder away. “Do I look like I have a degree in economics? Tell me the bottom line.”

Carolyn pulled her shirt down to cover her breast. She lifted the sleeping baby to her shoulder with one hand. “Mother paid almost $20,000 in taxes last year.”

Marsha opened the folder and ran her finger down a column of numbers. “Lydia had a net income of $320,000 for 1998. Net.”

“Net?” Toulousa asked.

“After all her deductions. In other words, the round figure of $10,000 that I paid in rent was only a fraction of her income. She didn’t work. Carolyn says she didn’t own property. She’d have to have a couple of million in investments to earn an income over $300,000.”

Toulousa’s eyes were wide open, showing white all around the iris. “Wow! The groceries I bought came to $67.43. You can pay me back tomorrow.” She cocked her head and added, “I’m not joking.”

Carolyn leaned her head back, rubbing Bert’s back. “But Mother always complained that my paycheck didn’t cover the cost of me living here. It doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes sense,” Marsha said. “She was a miser.”

“Marsha, you’re talking about the dead. Show some respect,” Toulousa snapped.

If Carolyn hadn’t been sitting in front of her with red-rimmed eyes, Marsha would have emphasized that they were all better off with Lydia dead, but she kept the thought to herself.

The buzzer from downstairs rang, and Marsha cursed, “Shit! They should know not to ring. They’ll wake up Bert.”

Toulousa stood up and said dryly, “You know who ‘they’ is?”

Marsha scowled, “No. But they should know.”

Toulousa went to the intercom and buzzed in the grocery delivery man.

Once the bags were situated in the kitchen, Marsha picked up the conversation again. “The tax form has the name of the accountant who did the work. I want Carolyn to call him.”

“Well, yeah,” Toulousa agreed.

Carolyn shook her head no.

“Why not?” Toulousa asked.

“That kind of stuff is confidential. He wouldn’t tell me anything. Besides, I just got out of the hospital.”
            “And that means you’re a deaf-mute? Who else is he going to talk to? Lydia’s ghost? You’re Lydia’s daughter. Of course he’ll tell you what you need to know,” Toulousa said. She went to the phone, and said, “I’ll call. What’s the number?”

JUST ACROSS THE STREET IN NEW YORK CITY keeps unfolding. Take your time, read some more, and when the book is re-released next month, tell me if you want the installments to continue on-line.

§§

When Mike came in carrying a bag of bagels, Fran didn’t look up. She was reading in her pajamas, wearing bunny slippers, with her legs hanging over the edge of the white leather chair.

“You want coffee, milk, or orange juice with your bagel?” Mike asked her from the kitchen.

Fran unconsciously ran her fingers through her blond hair and marked her place on the page with her finger before she looked up. “Dad, this is a pretty rough play you’re in.”

Mike walked over to her and realized what she was reading. “I wasn’t ready for you see the script.”

“It was going to get nicer in the next couple of weeks?” Fran asked.

Mike sat down, plopping the bagel bag on the coffee table. “It’s a great role, Fran. Yeah, there’s some sex and violence, but it all fits the character. It’s theater, that’s all.”

“So, when were you going to tell me about it? After you picked up your Emmy Award?”

Mike returned to the kitchen and came back with napkins, glasses and juice.

“Sesame for me,” Fran said.

“I know.” Mike found his cinnamon-raisin with cream cheese, then opened the paper around the pumpernickel with butter and salmon. The last was the sesame, toasted, dry.

Fran moistened her forefinger and dabbed up sesame seeds from the paper under the bagel. “It’s warm. Good,” she said, taking a bite. “I’ve seen worse in the movies, you know. I’m not a baby.”

Mike shrugged. “Yeah, but I’ve kept myself from cursing in front of you and Sherri for almost 18 years. How’s it going to feel when you hear your dad say the ‘f-word’ in public while he wiggles his hips lasciviously?”

Fran swallowed and smiled, “You think you’ll blush up there on stage?”

Mike didn’t wait. He blushed there in front of his daughter and tried to cover it up by pouring orange juice into two of the glasses.

“Okay. Finish reading the script and tell me what you think of it. I’ve already memorized ¼ of my lines. Well, not memorized, but I’ve gotten familiar with them. I have to have it all down by the end of the month.” He took a gulp of juice.

“You’ll have to stop blushing before I bring my friends to the theater,” Fran said, taking another bite.

“Who’s blushing?” Sherri said, padding in from the bedroom, “and why? I smelled my bagel.” She sat down next to her dad, leaning her head against him. Her eyes drooped shut and her hair bushed over her face.

Mike put his arm around his daughter and kissed the top of her head. “No one’s blushing, sweetheart.” He sent an evil eye in Fran’s direction. “I was asking Fran if she was willing to do the Statue of Liberty thing again this year.”

Fran groaned. “Dad, do I have to? My picture ended up on the internet last year.”

Sherri wrapped her arm around her father’s waist, smiling with her eyes closed, “That was so great. Everyone could tell it was you.”

“Well, yes. I didn’t have on a mask or anything. That’s it. Dad, we can wear masks this year. I’ll do it if I can be incognito.”

Each year since Mike had bought the Liberty Tax Service franchise, Fran and he put on Lady Liberty costumes and paraded up and down 2nd Avenue in front of the business, handing out brochures for the tax season. The first year, their picture had ended up in the business section of the New York Times, a human-interest feature about family-run businesses. The story had launched his company better than a million dollars of advertising could have done. Since then, it had been a father-daughter tradition.

“Your mom will complain about you doing it,” he said.

“Like always,” Sherri added.

Mike hung his head. “So, if you don’t want to, I’ll understand. I realize you’re growing up and have other things to do,” he said in the most pitiful, hang-dog voice he could muster.

Fran groaned and threw her crunched-up bagel paper at him. “One more year, Dad. That’s it. Next year, I’ll be at college, and you’ll have to hire one of your actor friends.”

“No way,” Mike said. “I’m not spending money on Lady Liberty. Your sister is going to apprentice the position this year. Right, Sherri?”

That made Sherri’s eyes pop open. “Who, me? On the street? Promoting U.S. taxes? No way.”

Mike poked his finger in Sherri’s ribs, making her squirm. “Not U.S. taxes. You’d be promoting your father being able to pay the bills. Bills like, let’s see, like expensive bagels with salmon instead of plain cream cheese.”

Sherri sat up straight and reached for the remaining paper-wrapped bagel.

“Besides, Sherri,” Fran said, “I was the same age as you when I started. You’ll be the darling of the neighborhood, just like I was.”

 Sherri glared at her sister. If she’d been wider awake, she’d have found a comeback to say. Instead, she took a bite that made her swoon with pleasure.

“Seriously,” Mike said, “It’ll be great. I want us out there every weekend during February and March.”

Fran poured herself another glass of juice. “You’ll have time, with all your rehearsals for On the Couch?”

Mike wished he didn’t have to work at a 9 to 5 job. The vision of an artist’s life danced in front of his eyes. He had bought Liberty Tax so he could be his own boss, make his own hours, do acting classes, auditions and roles without an employer docking his paycheck. It took money to live in New York, and until he made it big as an actor, he had to earn his keep as a CPA.

“When’s the play opening, Dad?” Sherri asked.

Mike glanced at Sherri. He didn’t want to talk about On the Couch. He hadn’t meant for Fran to read the script, and he needed a plan to keep his daughters from seeing the X-rated play.

“Dad’s not going to let you go to it,” Fran said.

“That’s not true,” Sherri asserted, looking at her dad.

“It’s not even a play yet. Who knows whether it’ll open? What I want to know is what size costume to order for you?” he said to Sherri, tickling her again so she fell to the side laughing.

Fran smirked at her father’s distraction tactic, and he shot back a glare. She redeemed herself by saying, “Maybe you could talk Dad into letting David wear a costume too, Sherri.”

Immediately, Sherri jumped up and down, crying, “Oh yes, Daddy. Yes. I’ll do it if David can do it too!”

§§

“Do it again,” Sharon said, lolling on her back. “Exactly that.” She sighed, and Joe stroked his fingernails slowly up her stomach. “You could do that for hours, and I wouldn’t stop you.”

Joe rested his chin against his fist, reviewing the curves and mounds on Sharon’s body, the line of wispy black hair running from the dip of her belly button down to her pubic hair. He never got tired of all the mysterious niches. Since Coco’s birth, Sharon’s body was different, not just fuller and fatter, but the muscles were different. Not flabbier, but different, as if she were a long-distance runner now instead of a sprinter.

Her nipples had grown harder and longer, blacker, bigger-around. The coconut-milk taste had disappeared a month after she’d stopped breast-feeding Coco, but he was still magnetized toward her breasts.

Sharon sighed again and swung herself around and rested her cheek against Joe’s left foot. She kissed his ankle and closed her eyes. They had all morning to make love. They didn’t have to leave for work until 10:00.

The luxurious murmurings and soothing touches shifted, and they moved toward a private world they shared. His lower jaw floated open and jutted forward as the roar in his ears shot heat to his belly, and Sharon grinned while she panted.

Joe collapsed, wiping his sweaty forehead with his forearm. Breathing hard, he wrapped his other arm around Sharon’s neck, pulling her close to whisper, “Did you hear me? I screamed. I swallowed it like always, but I screamed.”

“The perfect way to start the morning,” she replied.

Joe whispered again, letting his breath brush Sharon’s ear, “Five minutes. Let’s sleep just five minutes.”

After ten minutes, Sharon felt something tickling her arm. She flinched to make it stop. Then she felt it on her cheek. When she opened her eyes, she was staring into a pair of twinkling eyes the same color as her own, surrounded by milk-chocolate colored skin.

“Momma,” the toddler whispered. “Momma.”

Sharon’s eyes crinkled up in a smile. “Good morning, my sweetheart.” She reached out an arm, helping Coco wriggle up onto the bed. “Say good morning to Daddy.”

Sharon pulled a tee-shirt over her head, while Coco crawled over her to tickle Joe’s neck with her toddler fingers. When Joe opened one eye, Coco leaned down and touched her nose to his.

Suddenly, Joe gave a loud bark, the sound of a German shepherd dog facing a burglar, and Coco fell backwards laughing.

The three tickled and rolled, until Sharon announced, “I’m taking the first shower. Who wants to go with me?”

Coco sat up on her knees clapping her hands together. Sharon kissed Joe lightly on the lips and lifted the girl into her arms, heading to the bathroom.

Joe looked at the clock and called out, “I’ll have cereal ready when you get out.” They were supposed to meet Toulousa at the theater at 10:45. He flipped the sheet back to get out of bed.

§§

At the Triplex, Max was tapping his fingertips on the desk. “Of course, I understand Carolyn not being here.” He flapped one hand in the air, “I mean, she has a baby; she can’t come running into work. But Pete,” Max ran his fingers through his bushy hair, then picked up the phone. “I left two messages already at his house. School’s out. Where the hell is he?” Max dialed and listened.

Toulousa thought about baby Bert, having his start on the couch where she was sitting.

There was a tap on the office door, and Max slammed the receiver down and shouted, “Finally. Get in here, Pete.”

Joe and Sharon walked in, smiling.

Toulousa didn’t stand up to make the introductions. “Max, my brother Joe and Sharon.”

They went over to the desk, and Joe stuck out his hand for a shake. “Toulousa told us you might need help again today. So here we are.”

Max stood up to shake hands. “Sorry about yelling. I hear you saved the day yesterday. Sit down,” he added, pointing to the couch. Joe sat on the armrest and Sharon moved in next to Toulousa. Max rubbed his hands together. “And yeah, it looks like we’re several bricks short of a full load again today. You did the tickets,” he said pointing at Joe, then switched to Sharon, “and you the concessions?”

Joe nodded. “You had a full-house for each feature. We stayed busy.”

“I can tear tickets for a while, Max, so Sharon can get more experience with the popcorn counter,” Toulousa said. “If it’s okay with you, that is.”

Max’s hands flapped in the air. “What choice do I have? No offense, you two. I’m sure you’re great, but in 20 minutes, we got the holiday crowd coming, and we have to be ready.”

“They had lots of on-the-job training yesterday, Max,” Toulousa said. She let her eyes rove over the top of Max’s head for a couple of seconds. “If you like what they do today, they might be able to help fill in until Carolyn can get back.”

Max’s fingers swept through his thin hair. “How long do you figure that’s going to be?”

Toulousa guessed Carolyn needed three months to get straightened out with Bert, but Sharon jumped in before she could say anything, “Joe’s classes at NYU start up the beginning of February. I have a part-time job, but I usually have a morning schedule.”

Max pulled at his thick eyebrows. “So, you’re saying what?”

She smiled. “I’m saying, if you need us to work, we can arrange it. Maybe you want to take it day by day for a week?”

Max nodded, thinking these two seemed too good to be true. He wanted time to find the catch. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s good. Day by day for a while.” He reached in the desk drawer and handed some papers to Sharon. “You’ve got to fill out W-2s. I’m not paying you under the table.”

“I’m sure the taxes from their giant paychecks will put the U.S. government in the black,” Toulousa said dryly.

Max shot her a warning look.

“Just saying,” she said, backing down. “And me,” Toulousa said, cocking her head to the side and smoothing the fabric of her full green skirt, “how about if you give me Pete’s number and address. I’ll track him down and be back before the evening shows start.”

“You’ll drag Pete back? He better have a damn good excuse for not showing up or I’m going to can his ass.”

“I’m on the clock during the time it takes to find him. You’ll pay me, right?” Toulousa said, raising her chin and eyebrows, making her look like an empress giving orders to underlings.

Max smirked and nodded, agreeing to the bargain. Then he looked at Joe, “I’ll tear tickets.” He turned to Sharon and added, “When you need a break, you let me know. I’m great behind the counter.” He stood up, wiping his palms on his thighs, then said, “I’m unlocking the door. Let’s get to it.”

Toulousa put on her coat, hefted her purse onto her shoulder, and headed to the A train, leaving the Triplex to the others. She got off the subway at Dykeman Street at the northern tip of Manhattan, then walked south looking for 4247 Broadway. It was a six-story beige stone building like all the others in the neighborhood, facing Fort Tyron Park.

She rang the buzzer next to the name Turnbull.

§§

Marsha was still wearing her sweats and sneakers, but she’d washed her face and brushed her hair in the bathroom next to the cafeteria. When she walked back into Carolyn’s hospital room carrying a bowl of strawberry ice cream, the new mama was bent over, her hair covering her face, her big shoulders heaving with sobs. Marsha went toward Carolyn and leaned in to pat her back.

Without looking up, Carolyn turned her head and rested it against Marsha’s stomach while she imagined Lydia lying on the living room couch watching Quantum Leap, her grey wispy hair spread on a pillow, with her knotted hand around the remote control. Her mother’s fingers were like gnarled tree stumps, rough and spotted brown.

Lydia’s loud and overbearing voice reverberated in Carolyn’s memory. She grimaced through her tears, then she pictured the package of her mother’s bones lying somewhere in the same hospital where she and her baby were. She let out one long-lasting breath of a high-pitched moan.

Marsha maneuvered herself into the chair, setting the ice cream on the bedside table, and wrapped her arms around Carolyn awkwardly. Caring for flowers was easier than giving aid and comfort to a person, but she did her best.

She shifted and stroked Carolyn’s head, and murmured, “It’s going to be okay,” again and again.

Carolyn groaned and began crying again through swollen eyes. The feelings felt too big, too much to live through. How could she feel so much pain pushing through her? Her mother so suddenly gone – it felt as bad as when she went into labor with Bert. The blood and loss, the hope and loss, they were all mixed up in her mind. She stuttered through her teeth and thickened tongue and tried to stop crying.

“Just let it out,” Marsha said. She kept caressing Carolyn’s head, and the big woman started heaving with tears again.

After ten minutes, the vision of Lydia on a slab covered with a sheet transformed into an image of a tiny baby the color of mocha ice cream wriggling inside a blue blanket, and her crying eased up. She sat up, her shoulders slumped, and she looked in Marsha’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Carolyn said.

Marsha shook her head. “If you didn’t cry, you’d go crazy with all you’ve been through.”

They were silent for a few minutes. Then Carolyn gave a giant sigh, letting out every breath she’d held for the last three decades. “What am I going to do?” she asked, talking to the ghost of her mother.

The ghost didn’t respond, but Marsha was used to organizing, to researching, to taking actions and seeing accomplishments at work. Carolyn’s question seemed like a good one to her. Her brain sifted and calculated everything her neighbor was going through, and she said, “First, you have to put all your attention on recuperating here in the hospital. Second, keep working on your breast-feeding techniques.” Marsha smiled, and patted Carolyn’s hand before she went on. “That’s enough for you for right now. Would you like me to find out where your mother is in the hospital?”

Carolyn looked up gratefully, “Oh yes. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with…,” she couldn’t say the word, “to do about.…” She stopped.

Marsha knew what she meant. What do you do with a dead body? She figured they needed a funeral home to make arrangements, but she said, “I’ll find out that too. You’ll be okay here by yourself?” Carolyn nodded, and Marsha handed her the dish of melting strawberry ice cream, then went out to track down Lydia’s corpse. It was a chore she didn’t mind at all.

Only 2 weeks until the re-release of my novel JUST ACROSS THE STREET IN NEW YORK CITY. I am excited!

Here is the 10th installment from the book…sorry that the spacing and paragraph breaks are off. They’ll be normal in the book itself. For now, just have a good time “visiting” New York.

§§

Sharon pulled on her coat and said, “Don’t let them yank your chain, Pete. Having a baby is great.” She turned to Toulousa, “Who does he look like?”

She stared at Pete for a second and answered, “I think someone else must be the father. He’s whiter than Carolyn.”

Pete’s eyes got incredibly round. He couldn’t blink.

Then Toulousa laughed. “Just joking. Right now he just looks like a baby, a brown baby. Who knows who he resembles? You’ll see when you get there.”

 Pete gulped, “So you think we’ll be okay, her and me and a baby?”

She looked back and forth between her brother and Sharon. “You’ll be more okay if these guys keep helping out at the Triplex until Carolyn can get back to work.”

“Toulousa,” Joe interrupted, “What’s your boss going to say about you bringing in a couple of strangers to handle his money?”

“Maybe I should’ve phoned him about being short-staffed, instead of calling you,” she said.

But he knew the look in his sister’s eyes. “You think he’s going to love what you did.”

Sharon recognized the light in Toulousa’s brown eyes too. “Mamie is there for Coco. Whenever I’m not working at the YMCA, I’ll help here all I can.”

“So let’s start counting money and get outta here,” Toulousa said.

“I’ve got to stick around to lock up,” Pete said. “The hospital will let me in after midnight?”

“I’m going back to tell Carolyn goodnight. I’ll alert them that you’re coming. After all, it’s YOUR baby.”

When Toulousa arrived again at St. Vincent’s Hospital, Marsha was snoring in the chair next to a sleeping Carolyn. But they woke up to the sound of Toulousa rattling a sack of Tasti-Creme donuts.

After hearing about the record-high ticket sales at the Triplex and downing two chocolate donuts with sprinkles, Carolyn’s forehead wrinkled with worry. “You’ll explain to Max why I missed work?”

Toulousa waved her hand in the air, to shew away Carolyn’s thoughts. “No problem. I think you’ll be able to take as much time off as you need, with your job waiting for you to return. I have a plan that Max won’t be able to turn down.” She patted Carolyn’s hand as she stood up. “Pete should be here soon. He was checking the theaters when I left.” She shook her head and her dreadlocks swung out. “He was one excited man when I told him about Bert. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

 “I’m leaving too, Carolyn. You made it a memorable January 1,” Marsha said.

Carolyn’s forehead wrinkled again. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no. Don’t apologize. It was great. We gave birth to a baby together.” Marsha’s tired face blushed, and she added, “You did all the work.”

Toulousa looked across the bed at Marsha. The dark circles under her eyes showed how exhausted she was. Toulousa guessed Marsha was almost 40 years old. She didn’t wear a wedding ring or any other jewelry except tiny gold studs in her ears and a watch that was too big for her wrist. If she put on make-up and got some sleep, Toulousa thought, she’d be attractive.

At the exit to the hospital, in the dark, as the holiday traffic went by, Toulousa ripped a sheet from a notebook in her big bag and started scribbling on it. “Here’s my name, and the phone number at my apartment. I’m putting the Triplex number on it too.” She handed the paper to Marsha and said, “She’s going to need help figuring out how to manage everything.”

Marsha nodded. She understood what Toulousa was saying. Maybe they could join forces to get Carolyn out from under her mean mother’s thumb. “Okay,” she agreed, passing her business card back to the black woman. That was the most her tired mind could formulate to say.

§§

Lori Vaughn sat at the head of the rectangular table, her arms crossed over her chest. Her assistants, Angela Herrick and Billy Barton flanked her, and six actors filled in the other places.

Mike didn’t show off that he had memorized the first 50 pages. He stayed low-key, just reading, getting familiar with the other actors. The woman who had the role of Mommy was probably 25, but she was small-boned and short, with a light, lilting voice. She could pass for 14 with the right clothes and make-up, except she was built with boobs that would make a porn queen proud. The actor who’d play the ditch-digger’s older friend Murray sat next to the one who had the role of the psychiatrist. There was a young man to play the court-room guard, and a woman who would do two roles, the judge and Seth’s parole officer.

Vaughn’s gray-blond hair was in a knot at the top of her head, held up by a yellow #2 pencil. When the man playing the guard raised his voice and pounded his fist on the table, Vaughn interrupted to say, “Let’s just keep it a read-through today, Mr. Fontaine. We’ll get to the acting later.” At one point, she asked them to pick up the pace. Otherwise, she stayed silent, taking notes.

Her sidekicks didn’t say a word. Billy Barton stroked his goatee like he was imagining sets, props, lighting, and costumes. Angela Herrick scribbled notes on a calendar, then numbers on a spreadsheet during the 2 hour rehearsal.

By the end of the session, Mike had a good idea of the personalities of his new colleagues, as well as the characters in the 200-page play. He felt like he was riding a cloud of ecstasy during the afternoon. There wasn’t any reason for him to be so happy, so focused, so in his skin, except that he loved acting. And after the read-through, he was convinced this was the role of a life-time. His character never left the stage. He was the star.

Lori Vaughn wrapped up the session with a small speech, “The first six weeks, we’ll rehearse three nights a week. Know your lines by February 1. If you have any problems, tell Angela, and we’ll see how we can work things out.”

Mike was putting on his coat, when Vaughn came up to him. She stood straight, her shoulders back, without a smile. “Seth’s a big role, Mr. Levine,” she said to him.

Mike smiled, still floating, and told her, “I’m glad to be working with you.”

She took a beat, like she was considering her next words. Then she said, “I have some ideas about how to make your performance really powerful.”

Mike’s ears perked up. This could be his chance to transform into an actor with honed skills and technique. “Anything you suggest, I’ll do my best to follow through with it,” he told the director seriously.

She smiled, revealing her small, shining teeth for the first time. “I’m glad to hear that. I want you to come by my loft. Show up at 9:00 tonight. I’ll give you a private acting lesson.”

He left the Off-Center Theater in a daze. He was sure she’d said she would give him an acting lesson. But what he heard was she wanted to fuck him. It was her tone, her limpid eyelids, the way she shrugged when she gave him her address. Mike knew these signals.

He arrived at his apartment with two pizzas for dinner. After he’d eaten with Fran and Sherri, Mike asked if they were okay with him leaving for an hour, because the director had some notes to give him from the rehearsal.

Bathed, freshly shaved, with fresh jeans and shirt, Mike kissed the forehead of both girls as they settled in to watch a DVD of Ghostbusters. Sherri shook her finger at him and said, “Be home by 11 or you’ll be grounded for a week.”

He saluted her and said, “Yes, mam,” then headed to Dwayne Street.

§§

When Lori Vaughn opened the door, she was wearing a man’s white shirt, unbuttoned, and nothing else. His instincts had been right. Her greying hair was the same color top and bottom, but her body didn’t have a loose muscle on it.

He moved the few inches that separated him from the woman and kissed her. “Like I said, Madame Director, anything you say, I’ll do.”

“Let’s start with champagne,” she said, letting him follow her to the end of the loft where the futon bed was. She handed him a flute, filled it with bubbling liquid, and said, “If you want more, you’ll have to convince me.”

Mike chugged the champagne and pushed Vaughn back onto the bed. He didn’t need more champagne to become the master of the situation. 15 minutes later, Vaughn made a cry, like a woman keening over a lost child. She shivered, and directed, “Again.”

This time, her shiver came slower and almost tossed him off the bed, but he held her tight, waiting until her cry stopped. The tension in Lori’s body collapsed.

After ten minutes of silent, exhausted breathing, Lori Vaughn sat up on the damp bed, pulled on the white shirt, and said, “I knew it would be a good rehearsal.”

Mike tried to hide his smile. “Do you have performance notes for me?” he asked.

“You can try the Meisner technique next time,” she replied, standing up. “You’ll come again?”

He reached for her and said, “I loved coming with you.”

She stepped away before he could kiss her, saying, “Oh yes. You’ll be great in the role.” Her little teeth showed in a smile. “But now, why don’t you get dressed. I’ll see you at the theater at the next rehearsal. Don’t be late.”

He wasn’t used to being dismissed after sex. He was usually the one who did the dismissing. But it didn’t make any difference. He was flying high. His director thought he was enough of an actor to take him to bed. Mike suddenly saw himself as a successful stage actor with the celebrated Lori Vaughn as his director. He could get laid anywhere. Feeling like a successful man was not so easy.

Going home, he imagined telling his employees at Liberty Tax about Lori. Maybe they had seen her name in the newspaper. He could describe her gray-blond pubic hair. He would tell them she was prettier than the miniature headshot in the paper. The tale-telling was just a fantasy. He didn’t talk to people at Liberty as if they were friends. He joked with them, talked about clients with them, occasionally drank with them. But that was the limit.

His daughters knew a few general things about his dreams, fears, and happiness, but he certainly was not going to talk to the girls about Lori Vaughn.

He wouldn’t talk to the other actors about her either. Instinctively, he knew the relationship would be over instantly if the cast heard about him and Lori. He wasn’t sure what kind of relationship it was, but he wasn’t going to put his role as Seth in On The Couch in jeopardy by doing something stupid like telling sex stories.

With images in his mind of celebrities applauding his stage performance, Mike got home before his curfew.

§§

Marsha was dreaming about a baby floating in a basket down the East River, when a buzzer woke her up. It took her a minute to remember where she was. She opened one eye and looked at the clock beside the bed. 10:28. The sun was up, so it must be 10:28 in the morning.

The details of the previous day took form, bloody Carolyn, the taxi ride, the hospital, the cookies. Marsha sat up, both eyes wide. “Fucking shit,” she said to herself. “The cookies.” The batch of toxic cookies was still in the kitchen, covered, waiting to be delivered upstairs.

She had one leg out of bed, and the buzzer sounded again. It was the building’s front door. In bare feet, Marsha went to the intercom and pushed the button, “Yes?”

“We’re trying to get hold of Carolyn Duffy,” a voice said.

Marsha wondered who could be asking for Carolyn on Saturday, the day after New Year’s Day. “Hers is the middle buzzer, the one that says Duffy,” she said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

She was heading toward the bathroom when the buzzer sounded again.

Marsha used her most pleasant voice with the intercom. “Yes?”

It was the same man’s voice. “Mam, we’re with the NYPD. No one answers the buzzer for that apartment. Do you know where we can find Ms. Duffy?”

“NYPD?” Marsha repeated.

“Yes, mam.”

Marsha ran through her options. She could do what she was supposed to do, get their badge numbers, and confirm their identity by calling 911, before buzzing them into the building. Or she could keep it simple.

She knew she looked terrible, swollen eyes and limp hair, but simple sounded good. “Hold on, I’ll be right there.”

She tossed her laundry in the air, piece by piece, the clean things mixing in with the dirty, until she found her sweatpants. Marsha pulled them on, stuffed her nightshirt into the waistband, threw on her ski jacket, and stepped into her slippers. It felt like a familiar costume. She didn’t take time to look at herself.

She unlocked her door, stepped into the hallway, and went to the building’s front door. She opened it, and yes, two uniformed officers stood on the stoop.

“May I see your badges?” she asked.

The taller cop answered by tapping his shield on his chest. “I’m Officer Jones. And this is Officer Tobias. Can you tell us where Carolyn Duffy is?”

Marsha wondered if every day of 1991 would start with a crisis at her door. She wasn’t feeling cooperative, and answered the policeman by saying, “Yes.”

Officer Jones did not roll his eyes. Instead, he kept his cool and continued, “Will you tell us the information about Ms. Duffy?”

“You can ask her mother. She lives one floor up.” Marsha stood aside in the doorway to let the officers pass.

Officer Tobias spoke up, “Who are you?”

“Why do you need to know?” Marsha asked, defensively.

This time, Jones couldn’t keep a poker face. His eyes lifted to the sky with impatience. “Mam, there’s been an accident. We’re trying to find Carolyn Duffy to inform her about an accident.”

“An accident?” Marsha asked.

“What’s your name?” Tobias asked again, taking a notebook out of his coat pocket.

Marsha could tell she wasn’t managing the situation well. “I’m Marsha Winston. I live here, on the 1st floor. Carolyn and Lydia Duffy live in the next apartment up. They own the building.”

Jones dropped his head and repeated himself softly, “Where is Carolyn Duffy?”

She thought for a minute, but couldn’t find any good reason not to tell the police what she knew. “She’s in the hospital.”

The two cops looked at each other, then back at Marsha.

Marsha lifted her shoulders and said, “What? She’s in St. Vincent’s. Really. She had a baby yesterday.” Her morning brain was starting to click into gear. “What accident?”

Jones said, “We need to talk to next of kin before saying anything more. Thanks for your help, Ms. Winston.”

Marsha couldn’t tell whether his last words were sarcastic or not.

Jones and Tobias turned to leave.

“No wait,” Marsha said. “You can’t go tell Carolyn some kind of bad news without any warning. It was an emergency Caesarian. She lost a lot of blood. Tell me what’s going on.”

“Sorry. We can’t do that,” Jones said.

“You’re going to the hospital?” she asked.

Tobias nodded. “Thanks for the information.”

They moved to the sidewalk.

Marsha couldn’t guess what kind of accident would involve Carolyn as next of kin. She only knew Pete’s first name, but maybe Bert’s daddy was hurt. Mugged. Murdered. Where did he live? She didn’t know. If Carolyn learned that her beloved had been in a terrible accident, she might roll over and die. How would she ever raise Bert alone?

Marsha ran out of the building in her slippers and caught up to the cops, grabbing at Tobias’ elbow.

He swung around with a glare, jerking his elbow free.

“I’m coming with you,” Marsha said. “Carolyn should have someone with her when you talk to her.”

Jones’ eyes rolled up to the sky again, and Tobias snorted, running his eyes up and down Marsha.

She remembered what she was wearing, that her hair was uncombed and her teeth unbrushed. “Please. Please. Give me one minute to put on shoes and get a purse. Please. It was a traumatic birth she went through. Let me go with you.”

Tobias took a step away, but Jones said, “You’ve got one minute. Hurry.”

Marsha didn’t think about more than shoes, purse, and locking the door. From the back seat of the police car, she repeated, “I’ll be more help if I know about the accident. Tell me what’s going on.”

Jones and Tobias ignored her during the five minutes to St. Vincent’s. Inside, Marsha led the way to the maternity floor.

Toulousa was in the room, sitting next to the hospital bed reading a book. Carolyn was staring at the sleeping, miniature baby in her arms.

Marsha saw Carolyn’s eyes roll open in panic when the police followed her into the room, a nurse bringing up the rear.

“It’s okay, Carolyn. They gave me a ride here,” Marsha said. She knew it sounded crazy, but it was what came out of her mouth. She was jumpy, afraid that the police would upset Carolyn, and then…, then, she didn’t know what would happen then. Maybe Bert would stop breathing or Carolyn would choke on her own tears. She didn’t know how to take care of a hysterical new parent. She almost hoped Pete was dead instead of maimed. Maimed could mean a miserable future.

The nurse walked to the bed, smiling. “You did okay with the feeding?” she asked.

Carolyn nodded, and Toulousa said, “She’s a natural.”

The nurse stroked Carolyn’s head before stroking Bert’s. “I’ll bring him back to you in a couple of hours,” she said, gently lifting the baby from Carolyn’s arms.

Then it was Jones’ turn. He stood where he was and said, “You’re Ms. Carolyn Duffy?” Carolyn didn’t answer and didn’t blink. The cop knew he had the right person, and he went on, “I’m sorry to tell you this, Ms. Duffy, but there’s been an accident.”

No one in the room breathed. Toulousa took Carolyn’s hand in hers. Marsha didn’t know what to do with herself.

Carolyn’s eyes teared up, and she turned to Marsha, “Pete didn’t show up last night. I knew something terrible had happened.”

Marsha went close to give Carolyn a hug.

“It’s your mother,” Jones went on.

“My mother?” Carolyn repeated.

“Her mother?” Marsha said.

Toulousa spoke, third in line, “Her mother?”

§§

“It was a car going the wrong way on 7th Avenue, driving north fast,” Officer Jones said.

Tobias took over, “We have the driver in custody. We don’t know yet why he was driving so crazy.” He looked down at his feet.

Carolyn was still holding her breath.

Toulousa spoke up, “And Ms. Duffy?”

Jones said, “She was crossing the street.” He put his hands in his pockets.

Finally, Tobias said, “I’m sorry, Ms. Duffy. She didn’t make it.”

Marsha’s mouth dropped open. “Lydia Duffy is dead? How can that be? I saw her yesterday.”

Carolyn shifted her eyes to Marsha and said, “You saw her?”

Toulousa asked the cops, “You’re certain it was Lydia?”

The two police officers seemed more comfortable talking to the black woman wearing a red and green striped sweater than to the disheveled woman they’d brought from West 22nd or to the fat woman in the hospital bed. Tobias explained to Toulousa, “The victim had her purse with her and a cart full of groceries. She must’ve been coming from the market.”

“She was dead at the scene,” Jones added. “There was nothing anyone could do, but she was brought here, to St. Vincent’s.”

They both offered their condolences for the bad news and left.

Carolyn dropped her head back on the pillow and closed her pale blue eyes, with tears sliding down her face. She wiped the back of her hand across her cheeks and croaked out the words, “I need Pete. Where’s Pete?”

Marsha looked at Toulousa, repeating the same question with her expression. Toulousa shrugged and said, “He’s not answering his phone.”

“But I thought he was supposed to be here last night?” Marsha asked.

Toulousa gave Marsha a hard look trying to get her to shut up, but Marsha kept on.

“What could keep him from coming to see his baby? Carolyn, you must be devastated. Pete should be here. And now, your mother?” Marsha looked at Toulousa who was turning her eyes to the ceiling, the same as Jones the cop had done. “Carolyn’s been through a shitload already. How much more does she have to cope with, after what she’s been through?”

Carolyn lifted her head and looked back and forth between Marsha and Toulousa. “It’s real? Mother is .…”

Toulousa continued patting her hand and said, “It’s too much to take in, Carolyn. We’ll check it out. The accident, I mean. And we’ll find Pete, don’t you worry.” She was using musical tones like a southern preacher, soothing and soft, instead of cracking jokes. She took a deep breath and added, “Maybe it was her time, Carolyn. I’m sorry.”

Toulousa’s words reminded Marsha about the poisoned chocolate chip cookies sitting on her kitchen counter, waiting to be delivered to her landlady. She was flooded with gratitude that Lydia hadn’t answered the door to take the cookies.

“What am I going to do?” Carolyn moaned, putting her face in her hands not able to hold back the tears.

Marsha pulled her mind back to the conversation to say, “Bert’s going to be the love of your life, Carolyn.” She didn’t continue her thought – that it was fabulous timing for Lydia to die. Instead she said, “The baby’s the important thing.”

Toulousa murmured, “There’ll be plenty of time to figure out what happened and what you have to do.”

Carolyn hiccupped between her cries, “Pete. Pete.”

Marsha cradled Carolyn, “We’re here with you.”

Toulousa asked Marsha, “Are you going to stay here a while today?”

Marsha nodded, “I’m off work until Monday. You?”
            Toulousa spoke to Carolyn, “I’m sorry but I need to go to the Triplex to get the work schedules straightened out, but I’ll be back.”

“You’ll find Pete? You’ll get him here?” Carolyn coughed out between sobs.

Toulousa stood up, gathered her books and bag, kissed Carolyn’s forehead, and left the room, cocking her head to Marsha to come to the hallway for a few private words.

Face to face in the hallway, Toulousa said, “I have a terrible feeling about Pete.”

Marsha cocked her head, “What do you mean?”

“He’s an 18-year-old kid. Anything could have happened to him.”

Marsha’s jaw dropped open. “Bert’s dad is 18 year’s old? What was Carolyn doing with….”

Toulousa interrupted her. “When I saw him last night, he said he was coming to the hospital after he locked up the theater.”

“Could he have gotten caught in a drug bust?” Marsha asked. “Or his dad beat him up?”

“Or he had math homework to finish?” Toulousa said sarcastically.

“Okay, I get it.” Marsha said, “I’m stereotyping the guy.”

“Maybe he was hit by a car, like Carolyn’s mother,” Toulousa said. Then a glint came into her black eyes, and she added, “She’s got a home now without a mother hanging on her neck. That’s a good thing, don’t you think?”

Marsha stayed silent, but she totally agreed.

JUST ACROSS THE STREET IN NEW YORK CITY, my novel set in the capital of the world, will be re-released February 2, 2022. That’s a Tuesday, and it’s coming up fast. Here’s the 9th installment before the book comes out. Have fun reading.

§§

By the time Marsha got back to the hospital, it was late afternoon. Carolyn was sleeping when she walked in the room.

Toulousa looked up from the book open in her lap. “You’re a week late to be playing Santa.”

Marsha set down the bags she had lugged in on her shoulder. “I was longer than I expected. Thanks for staying.”

“It was no problem to stick around,” Toulousa said, in a quiet voice so she wouldn’t wake Carolyn up. She turned the corner of a page down to save her place and closed the book.

“She’s doing okay?”

Toulousa nodded. “Really, you should have a sleigh. What do you have there?” she asked, watching Marsha reach into the bags.

“I stopped to get Carolyn some clothes to wear when she leaves,” Marsha whispered back. She pulled out two pairs of draw-sting pants, a navy sweater, and two big tee-shirts, one pink and one yellow. “I didn’t know what size to get,” she added when she showed a package of socks and a pair of floppy house-shoes. The last thing in the bag was a 3-pack of lacy black panties, big and sexy.

“So you’re a fashion buyer at Bloomingdale’s,” Toulousa said.

Marsha smirked, “Real funny,” and she opened another sack to display a toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, a brush, and hand lotion. “When we caught the taxi last night, we weren’t thinking about what she’d need.”

The last bag she showed to Toulousa didn’t need explaining. Its aroma broadcast French fries and hamburgers. “I haven’t eaten since before dawn,” she said softly. “I thought you might be hungry too.” She passed a burger, a package of fries, and a soda can across Carolyn’s sleeping body to Toulousa. “I hope you like mayonnaise.”

Toulousa felt like swooning when she unwrapped the burger. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until she took the first bite. Swallowing she said, “I’m a mustard woman myself, but don’t worry about it. This is great. Thanks.”

The burgers and fries disappeared. Then with a sly expression on her face, Marsha pulled out a tin-foil-covered plate.

“No! Yes?” Toulousa said.

“You know what’s in here?” Marsha said.

Toulousa closed her eyes, “You can’t mistake the smell. Ahhh.” Then she opened her eyes and said, “Dill pickles, right?”

Marsha jerked the plate away from Toulousa.

“I’m joking.” Toulousa said.

“I’m not laughing.”

Toulousa got back on track, “You made chocolate chip cookies.” She looked deep into Marsha’s eyes. “And you’re going to share with me, right?”

“Maybe. Well, yeah, okay,” Marsha said, taking the foil off the plate. “They’re not from scratch.”

Toulousa put a cookie in her mouth, sighing. “My Mamie makes chocolate chip cookies. They’re good, but they’re not this good.”

Marsha glanced at the sleeping Carolyn and asked Toulousa, “Do you cook?”

“I know how, but there are lots of good cooks in my apartment so I don’t have to do much. Just a lot of eating.”

“You’re skinny,” Marsha said, taking a second cookie.

Without looking at Marsha, Toulousa answered, “You’re not fat.”

“Yeah, but I count calories. I have to watch what I eat or I gain weight.”

“I’ve weighed the same since I was 12.”

Marsha nodded and said, “I bet you’re on lots of people’s shitlist.”

“Probably, but not because I’m skinny.” Toulousa started chewing her fourth cookie. She changed the subject then, keeping her voice in a whisper to keep from waking Carolyn. “Did you pay your rent like you said?”

Marsha took another chocolate chip cookie. It wasn’t warm any longer, but it was soft, with lots of chips. “You work with Carolyn, right?” she asked Toulousa, looking across the bed at the Jamaican.

Toulousa nodded.

“At a movie theater?”

Toulousa nodded again and added a smile. “Yeah, the 23rd Street Triplex.” She lowered her voice another notch and leaned forward in her chair. “I know Carolyn’s mother won’t be happy about this baby.”

Marsha harrumphed, “That’s an understatement.”

Toulousa explained that she didn’t know Carolyn’s family details. “All I know is, Carolyn’s scared of her mother. She hasn’t told me that directly. It’s just what I’ve picked up.”

Marsha waved the plate of cookies away when Toulousa pointed for her to take another. “Carolyn would be better off without her.”

They looked each other in the eyes for ten seconds, before Marsha dropped hers to her lap.

Toulousa leaned back and said, “I wish I had milk to wash down these cookies.”

Marsha didn’t reply.

“No, no,” Toulousa said. “I didn’t mean you should have brought milk. I meant I’d eat the whole plateful if I had milk. They’re great. The coke is fine. Better than fine. The whole meal was fabulous. Really. Thank you. How much do I owe you for the food?”

It made her feel good that Toulousa appreciated the trouble she’d gone to for the burgers. “Nothing. You don’t owe me anything. Forget it.”

Carolyn said, “Hamburgers?”

The two women hadn’t noticed Carolyn had awakened.

“You look like you’re feeling better,” Marsha said.

She rubbed her hands gently across her stomach and said, “I’m sore.” Carolyn went on, “Pete hasn’t gotten here yet?”

“It’s still early,” Toulousa answered.

Carolyn turned her head on the pillow. “And Robert?”

Marsha wondered if Carolyn had a second boyfriend. She asked, “Who’s Robert, Carolyn?”

But Toulousa was showing her big teeth. “So you’ve named him. Robert. It’s a big name for a little baby.”

“For now, Bert,” Carolyn said. “Like Bert and Ernie.”

Marsha looked at Carolyn in wonder. Was that how it worked? While a woman slept after giving birth, the right name popped into her head? She asked, “Have you seen him yet?” Carolyn shook her head, and Marsha pushed the call button.

When the nurse came in, Toulousa asked, “Can the new mama meet baby Bert Duffy?”

The nurse looked around the room. She was going to retire in two more years. Until then, working on the maternity ward was a good assignment. “I’ll tell you what,” she said to all three women in the room, “if I can have a couple of those cookies, I’ll see if I can bring the baby here, instead of taking you to him.”

Marsha became the instant hostess, standing up, offering cookies, passing them to Carolyn as well, and promising more whenever the nurse had the taste for them.

In ten minutes, the nurse rolled the glass incubator into Carolyn’s room, and ohh’s and ahh’s started up about the mocha ice-cream colored baby. The nurse took another two cookies. With crumbs on her lips, she told Carolyn that baby Bert was breathing well, and weighed 5.1 pounds, “Not bad for 36 weeks. When he gains a few ounces, he’ll be able to go home.” Then she added, “Tomorrow, when the anesthesia’s cleared out of your body, we’ll get you started with breast feeding.”

Carolyn froze, like she’d been asked to parachute from an airliner. The nurse patted her arm and said, “Mother Nature will take care of everything. Don’t you worry. Now I better take Bert back to the nursery.”

Carolyn watched her baby being rolled out of the room. “Don’t worry?” she said. All she could do was worry. Her fingers clawed at the bed sheet. “What am I going to do when I leave here? How am I going to work and take care of Bert at the same time?”

Carolyn didn’t give voice to her biggest worry: What was Lydia going to do to her and the baby? Marsha and Toulousa were silently chewing on the same problem.

But then the miniature mouth on the face of her baby came back to her mind, and Carolyn forgot about her mother. He’d had his eyes closed, so she didn’t know the color, but his curled-up eyelashes were black.

Marsha broke the silence, “The nurse is right, Carolyn. Don’t worry. Everything will work out. The important thing is, Bert’s doing fine.”

Carolyn felt Toulousa’s hand on her arm. Then her friend said, “I need to go to the theater to check on Joe and Sharon before closing. I’ll come back tonight before I head for the subway home.”

Tears jumped to Carolyn’s pale blue eyes, “You’ve been so, so.…” She couldn’t think of the right word. What had she done to deserve all this kindness? “Thanks for coming,” she said lamely. After good-byes, Toulousa tipped her head to Marsha and left.

§§

“Good-night, Dad,” Fran said. Her flannel pajamas had yellow butterflies darting through roses. “Is it okay if I sleep late tomorrow?”

“No big plans?”

“I just have to finish a Fitzgerald novel before school starts up again. Sherri’s going somewhere with David. The library, I think. Mainly I want to do nothing. Nothing at all.”

“It sounds like a great holiday plan,” Mike told her.

Fran stood behind Mike’s chair and put her arms around his neck. “Are you learning lines for the new play?” she asked.

Mike flipped the pages over self-consciously and patted Fran’s arms. “Yes. Tomorrow afternoon, there’s a read-through with all the actors.”
            “You have to know it all by then?”

“No. Not at all. But I want to get a leg up on the memorizing. 199 pages, and I have lines on every one.”
            Fran leaned down and kissed her dad’s cheek. “When you need me to run lines with you, let me know.”

His daughter had helped him with all his plays, reading lines with him, back and forth, correcting his mistakes, prompting him when he drew a blank. But this play, it was too raw, too … what word would he use? It was art. He knew that. But the level of sexuality was beyond his normal limits.

His director, Lori Vaughn, predicted New York was going to love it, that it’d be sold out every night. Mike translated that to mean the play was too brutal for the rest of the country to accept, and he agreed.

But it didn’t matter because he loved the role. He loved transforming himself into a tough, macho man. It was a version of himself he’d never acknowledged in the light of day. In the dark of a theater, the character had found its home.

But as far as his daughters were concerned, even 17 year-old Fran who watched raunchy R-rated movies without flinching, Mike already knew he wanted to hide the script from them. He didn’t know how to handle it yet. They had watched every play and every indie film he’d acted in. They were his strongest supporters, his best audience. That was opposite to his ex, who ridiculed his theatrical work, just like she belittled all his dreams, he thought bitterly to himself.

Mike kissed Fran’s hand, saying, “Thanks for the offer, Fran. I’ll let you know when I need help. It’s a lot to learn, but maybe it’ll go easily.” He added, “If she’s still awake, tell Sherri ‘sweet dreams’ for me. Okay?”

When Fran was safely inside the bedroom, Mike turned the script pages over. He was at page 12. His character Seth had been escorted from the courtroom to the psychiatrist’s office, which served as the set for the entire play.

The shrink asked Seth to tell her about his formative sexual experiences. Mike read, trying to let the rhythms of the character’s language sink into his mind.

MY FIRST TIME WAS SPECIAL. MOMMY AND ME, WE’D BEEN KISSING FOR WEEKS.

THERE WAS A GUY I KNEW. MURRAY WAS HIS NAME. HE HAD HIS OWN APARTMENT. IT WAS A DUMP BUT IT WAS ALL HIS, HIM BEING OLDER THAN ME. WE WORKED AT THE SAME SITE. I’D BEEN AT THE JOB FOR MOST OF THE SUMMER, WHEN MURRAY SAYS TO ME, “SETH, ANYTIME YOU NEED SOME PRIVATE TIME, YOU LET ME KNOW. MY PLACE IS YOUR PLACE. UNDERSTAND?”

WE’D BEEN THERE, MURRAY AND ME, I MEAN, WE’D BEEN THERE LOTS OF TIMES TALKING OR DRINKING OR WATCHING TV, SO I FELT LIKE I KNEW THE PLACE.

ONE DAY, I PROMISED TO TAKE MOMMY TO SEE “ROSEMARY’S BABY.” YOU KNOW WHAT SHE SAID? SHE SAID “YES,” BUT THEN SHE SAID, “I BET MURRAY’S PLACE IS REAL COMFORTABLE.” SHE SMILED AND SAID, “MAYBE WE COULD GO THERE AFTER THE MOVIE.”

SHE WAS WEARING HER SPECIAL YELLOW DRESS WITH THE FULL SKIRT AND THE WHITE PETTICOAT UNDERNEATH, AND SHE SAT REAL CLOSE TO ME DURING THE MOVIE AND HELD MY HAND ON MY THIGH, THIS ONE, BECAUSE MY OTHER HAND WAS AROUND HER SHOULDER. I COULD SMELL HER, A SMELL LIKE SOAP AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT ELSE, LIKE AIR AND SUGAR MAYBE, A GOOD SMELL.

I HAD TO CONCENTRATE REAL HARD ON THE MOVIE SO THAT MY HARD-ON DIDN’T BURST THROUGH MY JEANS.

WHEN WE GOT TO MURRAY’S, HE WAS THERE. MURRY AND MOMMY TALKED FOR A WHILE SAYING HELLO AND HOW ARE YOU. THEN HE SAID HE WAS GOING OUT FOR THE NIGHT TO WORK.

MOMMY AND ME, WE DIDN’T TURN ON THE TV OR ANYTHING. WE SAT THERE TALKING SOME, NOT VERY MUCH, BECAUSE WE BOTH KNEW WHAT WAS ABOUT TO HAPPEN. YOU KNOW, EVEN WITH ALL EVERYBODY SAID ABOUT MOMMY, ABOUT HER JUGS, I KNEW THAT IT WAS THE FIRST TIME FOR HER TOO. I WASN’T SCARED. NERVOUS, SURE, BUT NOT SCARED, BECAUSE I KNEW I HAD TO BE STRONG FOR HER. SHE WAS JUST A LITTLE THING REALLY.

SHE WAS QUIET AND SOFT. SHE KEPT PUTTING HER HAND ON MY KNEE, TOUCHING ME AND LOOKING AT ME WITH THOSE HAZEL EYES. HER HAIR FELL ACROSS MY FACE WHEN SHE REACHED AROUND ONCE TO KISS THE BACK OF MY NECK. I WHISPERED TO HER,”WE SHOULD GO TO THE BEDROOM. WE’LL BE COMFORTABLE THERE,” AND SHE GAVE ME A NOD.

IN THE BEDROOM, IT WAS DARK. I TOOK OFF HER CLOTHES, GENTLE LIKE, SO SHE WOULDN’T GET SCARED. I DON’T REMEMBER TAKING OFF MY CLOTHES, BUT I MUST’VE. MY EYES WERE ON HER. I DIDN’T WANT TO STARE BUT I JUST KEPT LOOKING AT HER BODY, AND THEN MY BODY TOOK OVER, AS IF I’D DONE IT A HUNDRED TIMES.

The lines weren’t hard to memorize. Mike knew the first few pages before he’d finished two glasses of Scotch. He hoped Lori Vaughn knew what she was doing. The words, of course, were great, but it seemed boring for an audience to have to listen to a long monologue on stage, even if it was a man talking about sex to his therapist.

He turned back to the script of On The Couch. His job was to learn the lines, to flesh out the character. He’d let the director do her job later.

§§

At the Triplex, everything was just as Toulousa had expected. The ticket booth was dark, the last show had started an hour before. Her tall, dark, and handsome brother Joe was behind the candy counter with Sharon. Together, they were swabbing the popcorn cage, to get it ready for the next day. Pete wasn’t in sight.

“Hey there, Bro,” she said to Joe, slamming him a high five. “It went okay?”

Joe nodded and said, “Glad to help out. I’d rather sell tickets than study for exams.”

Wiping her hands on a towel, Sharon added, “It was busy all day, Toulousa. How’s your friend?”

“She’s not dancing yet, but she’s okay. Bert too. That’s what she named the baby.”

Sharon twittered with glee over the name. “Coco can call him Cousin Bert.”

“Pete,” Toulousa said, seeing the young usher coming out of theater # 2. “Congratulations! You must be so excited.” She went over and gave him a hug.

Pete wiped his arm across his forehead. “I can barely believe it.” He wagged his head like he was in a daze. “I’m a dad.” Then he looked up fast and added, “I sure am happy Carolyn’s okay. I was scared.”

Joe gave Pete a slap on his back, “You did your job, providing the sperm. What else is there? Congratulations, man.”

Sharon whacked him with her towel. “You know what else there is,” she said, trying to hide her smile. “Work, work, work.”

Joe’s arm went around Sharon’s shoulders, “Yeah, diapers, tears, bottles, I know. I’ve stuck around because you were cute when you were pregnant. I want to do it again.”

Pete watched Joe and Sharon. “It sounds scary,” he said.

Toulousa smiled, “Oh yeah, it’s worse than Halloween.”

My New Year’s Day was calm and full of positive wishes for a good 2022. New Year events for the characters in JUST ACROSS THE STREET IN NEW YORK CITY were more interesting.

I hope you enjoy the 8th installment.

§§

Marsha glanced at the waiting room clock and decided to ask at the registration desk for news about her pregnant neighbor. The admissions lady scowled at Marsha, but picked up the phone. When she looked back at Marsha, she was almost smiling, “Ms. Duffy is in recovery.”

“Can I go see her?” Marsha asked.

“Are you family?”

Marsha shook her head.

“When she’s out of recovery, you can go to her.” The lady nodded toward the waiting area. “In a couple of hours probably.”

Marsha looked at the clock over the lady’s head. It was 4:57. She followed the signs to the hospital cafeteria to have her New Year’s Day breakfast.

At 7:00 o’clock, Marsha sat down next to the hospital bed. A nurse came in, adjusted the blinds, took Carolyn’s pulse, then arranged Carolyn’s arm under the covers.

“She’ll be groggy all morning,” the nurse said.

Marsha felt groggy too, but strong black coffee had fortified her. “How warm is a baby at birth?” she asked.

The nurse put her hands on her hips and answered with a grunt, “Womb temperature. You can’t tell me a baby joke I haven’t heard.”

Marsha ducked her head, “Sorry. I do that when I’m anxious.”

 “Has the father been notified?” the nurse asked.

“I’m a neighbor. “I’ll contact the family. She’s okay? And the baby?”

The nurse smiled, making her look ten years younger. “Didn’t they tell you? It’s a boy. He’s healthy, but we always keep preemies a few days for observation, in case of complications. It’s just routine.” She looked down at the chart. “She came through the Caesarian okay, but Ms. Duffy will have to stay a couple of days too.”

The nurse was leaving when Marsha thought to ask, “Where’s the baby?”

“Follow me,” she said, padding through the door and along a hallway in her soft white shoes.

At a glass window, the nurse pointed at an incubator on the left side of the room. The baby inside was small, dark, motionless. He seemed like a shadow of the babies near the window in bassinettes, wrapped in white blankets with pink and blue bonnets on their heads.

Marsha didn’t know whether she should call Lydia or go home to tell her landlady about her daughter. Somehow, she didn’t feel right leaving the hospital.

She returned to Carolyn’s room, meaning to sit with her for a few more minutes. When she woke up with a start, her head was lolling to the left, and she couldn’t move her neck at first. Carolyn was looking at her with drugged eyes.

“My baby?” she mumbled.

Marsha swiveled her chin around stiffly. “He’s in the nursery. He’s okay, sleeping in an incubator.” She rang the nurse’s bell on the cord next to the bed. “You haven’t seen him yet?”

“Him?”

Marsha smiled and nodded. “Him. A boy. Yes.”

The nurse entered and said, “How are you feeling, Ms. Duffy? So you’re waking up a bit from the anesthetic?” She talked in a voice a couple of levels too loud, like she was trying to make an old person hear her.

“My baby?” Carolyn repeated.

“When you’re ready to sit in a wheelchair, we’ll roll you out to see him. You can’t hold him yet, but he’s doing well. Would you like a coke to drink?”

Carolyn nodded and rested her head back. Her eyes were closed when she said, “Thank you.” Then Carolyn opened her pale blue eyes and fixed them on Marsha. “Thank you,” she more clearly.

Marsha started to joke, “Now that he’s born, you’ll need drugs more than when you were in labor,” but she stopped. What she’d done for Carolyn Duffy was so far out of the ordinary that Marsha swallowed the light-hearted words.

Finally she replied, “You’re welcome. You scared the shit out of me, and I’m glad I was home.”

In fact, she wished she had opened her door faster instead of listening in fear to the screams for as long as she did. Her voice was low when she asked, “Where was your mother? Where was Lydia?”

Carolyn’s eyes slid shut, and she answered, “Making lentil soup.”

Marsha wasn’t sure she had heard right. “She was in the apartment making soup while you were hemorrhaging in the hallway? She didn’t help you?”

“Lentil soup,” Carolyn said. Then she fell asleep.

§§

Toulousa got to St. Vincent’s, found the maternity ward, and walked into room 234, wearing an orange and pink skirt under a pea coat, with a purple wool scarf around her neck and a black toboggan cap pushing down her mass of dreadlocks. Her friend was in the bed next to the window, a lump under the white blanket. The woman sitting next to Carolyn’s bed turned around to look at her.

Toulousa introduced herself to the white woman in grey sweatpants, “I’m Toulousa Bell. How’s she doing?” she asked, cocking her head toward the bed.

“I’m fine,” Carolyn answered for herself. Her voice wasn’t full strength, but her eyes were focused.

The woman with the smooth brunette hair jumped in, “She means that she’ll be fine after she recuperates from losing a lot of blood. My name’s Marsha Winston.” The corners of her bloodshot eyes crinkled up, and she added, “Carolyn has a beautiful baby boy.

“So I was right. A boy.” Toulousa went around to the other side of the bed, sat next to Carolyn, and took ahold of her hand. “I glad for you, but how come you didn’t pick up the phone and let Pete know when you went into labor?” She looked at Marsha and explained, “Pete’s the daddy, and he’s waiting for news.”

“The Triplex,” Carolyn groaned, closing her eyes. “I’m supposed to be at work.”

Toulousa held up her hand, saying, “Work is covered.”

Marsha explained, “She was outside my apartment early this morning, screaming and bleeding. We got here, and she had an emergency C-section. She wasn’t in shape to call anyone.”

Toulousa looked back and forth between her friend and Marsha. She lowered her voice, hoping Carolyn would ignore what she was about to say, and asked, “Where was her mother?”

In a flash, Marsha liked the black woman. It wasn’t her nature to make instant attachments, especially not to people in outlandish clothes. But she could tell from Toulousa’s tone, she’d discovered someone who judged Lydia Duffy the same as she did.

Marsha glanced at Carolyn’s closed eyes, and turned back to Toulousa. She felt her lip curling up in a growl. “I don’t know. I was getting ready to call her when you came in.”

“Don’t call,” Carolyn said, without opening her eyes.

Toulousa nodded and said, “I called already, Carolyn. She sounded glad you…,” how could she say it? “…like she was glad you were having problems.”

Carolyn stayed silent, but Marsha couldn’t keep her mouth closed any longer. She’d had a few hours to add 2 and 2 together, and realized the arguments she’d been hearing, the arguments where Lydia screamed at her daughter, that some of those arguments were about Carolyn’s pregnancy. “Lydia warned her she couldn’t bring a baby into the house. She wanted Carolyn to get an abortion,” Marsha told Toulousa.

She was half-sorry she’d gotten home from the New Year’s Eve party in time to hear Carolyn’s calls for help. It would be easier if she weren’t involved in a family drama. The other half of her was sorry she hadn’t intervened months ago when she heard Lydia’s tirades.

Carolyn choked and said, “I told her I’d gotten rid of it.”

“I’m not surprised,” Toulousa said. She knew her friend was stuck in a tough relationship with her mother. She squeezed Carolyn’s hand and said, “I think we need to call Pete to let him know the good news. Okay?” She saw a twinkle come into Carolyn’s pale blue eyes. She dialed from the hospital phone and handed the receiver to Carolyn.

“Hello,” she said, closing her eyes with a sigh. “Yes,” she answered. And “yes” again. “A boy.” After a pause, she cooed warmly, then handed the receiver to Toulousa with a sigh, saying, “He’s happy.”

Toulousa asked Pete for the low-down on Joe and Sharon and the crowds. Then she said, “Just a second,” and turned toward Marsha to ask, “When are they going home?”

“A couple of days,” Marsha answered.

Toulousa fed the information back to Pete, said goodbyes, and hung up. “He’ll be here to visit after closing the Triplex tonight. And did you hear? My brother and his girlfriend are covering us at work. Good idea, huh?”

Carolyn pressed Toulousa’s hand, letting her know she was grateful. It didn’t seem possible — she had a baby. And she had two women helping her.

The nurse came in, looked at Toulousa, and asked her, “Are you family?”

Marsha smothered her laugh. To her, two women had never looked less related than Carolyn Duffy and Toulousa Bell — one overweight woman who looked like an Irish baking potato without its skin, and a skinny black woman with Medusa hair and rainbow clothes.

Toulousa smiled at the nurse and said, “We work together.”

The nurse pursed her lips, evaluating Marsha and Toulousa. “You can both stay if you let her rest. She needs to rest.”

Marsha and Toulousa nodded.

When the nurse left, Marsha cut her eyes to Toulousa to say, “I need to go to my apartment. You’ll stay till I get back? It’s January 1, and I want to get my rent check to Carolyn’s mother. She’s my landlady.”

The subtext about Lydia came through. Marsha didn’t care about the rent, but she had some things to say to Carolyn’s mother.

Toulousa showed her big white teeth. “Take a bath before you pay the rent.”

“You don’t like how I smell?” Marsha asked.

“You smell great. You look like death warmed over.”

Marsha smiled.

“I’ll stay here,” Toulousa said.

Marsha got up and kissed Carolyn’s cheek.

“Take another look at him,” Carolyn said. “Please.”

Marsha stroked the big woman’s forehead and left, veering by the incubator room. She tapped on the window lightly and said, “Hey there, sweetie. You’re going to grow up to smell the roses.”

§§

Marsha didn’t bother to turn on the television when she went inside her apartment. January 1, the only thing showing would be football. She shrugged out of her sneakers, sweatpants and nightshirt, and got in the shower, letting hot water beat on her head and back.

With clean body, hair, and teeth, she wanted to climb into bed and hibernate until the next day, but she had things to do.

She found her checkbook and wrote out the $970 rent check. Climbing up a flight, Marsha knocked at Lydia Duffy’s door and waited, then knocked again, with no answer.

“It’s Marsha Winston,” she called out through the door. “I’ve got the rent.”

That’s when she heard footsteps and bolts being unlatched.

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Lydia Duffy growled at Marsha through the half-open doorway. “Who’d expect you to be on time with rent.” She stuck out her hand for the check.

Marsha interpreted the sneer on Lydia’s face as surprise. She held the rent check with both hands at chest level, like she was guarding a treat for an expectant dog. “Hi, Lydia,” she started pleasantly. “Just to let you know, Carolyn is doing well. The baby is a healthy boy.”

Lydia’s grey-tinged glower soured into mean-spirited revulsion. She said sarcastically, “Just what the world needs, another man,” and she spit at Marsha’s feet.

Marsha was shocked. She was so dumbfounded looking down at the circle of spit on her left shoe, that she almost missed it when Lydia’s hand reached out to snatch the check from her grasp. But youth won out. Marsha’s reflexes were faster than Lydia’s fingers.

“Your daughter’s alright, after a very close call with bleeding to death. Aren’t you glad about that?” Marsha knew the answer to her question, but asked anyway.

Lydia looked Marsha up and down. She knew the law. She knew she couldn’t get rid of a tenant without a mess of legal rigmarole. But with this one, it was going to be worth it.

The shriveled landlady hissed, “You should be ashamed for interfering in God’s work last night. They both should’ve died. They would’ve, if it hadn’t been for you. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t have a daughter. Now give me that check.” Her claw of a hand pinched Marsha’s forearm so hard that Marsha let go of the check. Lydia didn’t shrink back into her apartment. Instead, she stood proud and menacing in the doorway, sticking her weathered chin out.

Marsha was speechless, frozen on the landing. She’d expected Lydia to be cold, but not to this degree. She started to turn to go back down to her own apartment, but her organized, practical mind got the better of her. She asked, “Can I come in to get some clothes to take to Carolyn? She’s going to have to be in the hospital for a few days.” Even as she said it, the words sounded ridiculous to Marsha.

Lydia’s reply underlined Marsha’s naiveté. Her wrinkled lips receded, and a glint sprang into her bulging eyes. “Who?” she asked, and she laughed, loud and long, closing the door in Marsha’s face.

Stumbling down the steps on rubber legs, Marsha was stupefied at Lydia’s hardness. Inside her apartment, she sat on the couch and stared out the window onto West 22nd Street without seeing a thing except a replay of Lydia’s spit landing on her shoe.

Her hand stroked the leaves of a small rose bush on the table next to the couch. Out of habit, Marsha checked the soil in the pot to see if her plant needed water. It was as if the rose bush spoke to her, catching her attention, and Marsha turned to look at it. There weren’t any blooms. It would be another four months before the buds started showing. But soon, she’d need to fertilize it.

A pale smile curled Marsha’s lips. She shook herself, getting rid of her stupor.

In the kitchen, Marsha turned a chair toward the cabinets. She was convinced it was the smallest kitchen in Manhattan. She climbed on the chair, reached above the cupboards, and pulled down the box of gardening things. She checked, and yes, all the products were there.

She opened the refrigerator and took out a package of chocolate chip cookie dough. Sometimes, after a bad day, she ate the dough raw, but the cookies were best warm and soft. If she wasn’t careful, she could eat a plateful in a single day. Marsha preheated the oven, covered two baking sheets with foil, and started slicing the cookie dough. The first cookie sheet went in the oven, and the aroma of baking sugar and chocolate filled her nostrils.

Then she started preparing the second batch of cookies. Marsha sprinkled a cup of 2 in 1 Rose Flower Care on the second batch of cookie dough lumps spread on the baking sheet.

2 in 1 Rose Flower Care was her favorite fertilizer because it contained Disulfoton. Disulfoton killed aphids like magic. A couple of teaspoons of Disulfoton would kill a medium-sized dog. Marsha didn’t have a pet or children. No one chewed on her flowers or dug in the potting soil, so she never worried about toxicity to mammals.

For luck, Marsha opened a bag of chocolate chips and pressed several into each lump of cookie dough, so they’d be extra chocolaty.

She took out the first pan of cookies and set them aside for herself. The second batch didn’t take long to bake. She arranged the special cookies on a pretty plate and went back up to the Duffy apartment. She knocked and called out, “I have some New Year’s goodies for you, Lydia,” but this time, no one answered.  Marsha tried the doorknob, but it was locked. “You’re going to love what I made you,” she said loudly, knocking again. Finally, she announced, “I’ll bring them back this evening.” With a sigh, she returned to her apartment.